


Old Friend

by tsund0ku_library



Category: Metal Gear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-26
Updated: 2017-06-26
Packaged: 2018-11-19 05:48:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11306991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsund0ku_library/pseuds/tsund0ku_library
Summary: Feusgan, thanks so much for applying for the remix!Your writing style was intriguing, I had trouble deciding which one to do!  I hope you like this (and that it has more flow to it when you read it than I had while writing it; I cut out a good chunk of Ocelot just tailing Miller around because it was boring.)Oh, and the scar on his stomach, definitely a nod to the gut wound in "By the Throat"\"Battlefield Medicine"





	Old Friend

**Author's Note:**

  * For [feusgan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feusgan/gifts).



It had to be like this, Ocelot knew it. There was no other way.

They had each championed the version of Big Boss they'd liked best, in a way. Now it was up to the sons to settle a blood feud of which they had no fault in and yet could never escape the reach of. They'd made their decision long ago, had gotten the children to follow in their footsteps, Ocelot grooming Eli into revering his father even as he despised him.

 _A pity to do it so close to the child's birthday_ , he mused, twiddling the focus on his top of the line binoculars and sharpening the image of Miller in the dinky little store, a bright silver hand peeking out through the end of the sleeve of his heavy winter coat. _At least it's after,_

Catherine Miller was the child in question, daughter of Nadine Miller. He knew when and where she'd been born, knew what doctor had delivered her. He knew exactly when Nadine had left him and where she was living now. He was nothing if not meticulous.

"And a controlling, manipulative bastard," Miller's bitter voice rasped as clear as though he'd whispered it into his ear, a phantom of the past. He could practically feel his breath on the back of his neck.

The present Miller ambled over to the kids' birthday cards with a basket hooked over his arm, beer and a wilted cabbage already safely stowed in it. _The breakfast of champions for the survivalist expert_ , Ocelot thought, his mouth twitching into a sardonic smile beneath his silver mustache.

Ocelot shifts to avoid the glare on the window, keeping him in view and watching as attentively as he would two military officials exchanging top secret information. Observing his old comrade thumbing through cheap cards at the corner store should've been dull enough for him to consider pulling out his revolver, but Ocelot found himself enjoying it despite himself. It'd been quite some time since he'd done standard recon. He didn't think he strictly needed to be doing this, it seemed that the once formidable Commander Miller had grown soft and lazy in his _retirement_. He hadn't even noticed Ocelot tailing him for the past few days. Or had he? Perhaps he's letting Ocelot get close to him. He didn't think Miller would ever get over his death wish.

Miller scratched his nose, made a face at the cheap sentiment the floridly colored card had read. He stuffed it back into the slot, his lips moving as he muttered something under his breath. "Fuck me, they pay people to write this slop," Ocelot lip read and the corner of his mouth curled. Perhaps he hadn't changed as much as he'd thought.

He looked good. Healthy, healthier than Ocelot had ever seen him, if he's being honest. Standing tall on two powerful legs, his right arm replaced with a shiny, new one, better than the original model had ever been, Ocelot would say. He still didn't fully buy his excuse not to get proper prosthetics all those years ago, out in the middle of the sea, salt-water smelling air whipping the useless sleeve wildly. He thinks Miller just wanted a powerful, physical reminder on his body to show what he'd lost, to remind everyone what he'd lost. So of course he'd gone with flashy silver, even after he'd replaced it. 

He knew something about old scars and phantom pains. Ocelot traced one gloved finger down the long scar on his stomach absentmindedly, knowing exactly where it was even through his shirt.

Miller made his way to the counter, evidently satisfied with the latest card he'd picked out, giving the cashier a once over. Ocelot would've been able to see the wide smile he'd given the pretty cashier from his position without binoculars. Miller lingered at the checkout counter a tad longer than he needed to before he left, pushing out into the cold February.

Ocelot followed his progress across the sidewalk when Miller suddenly stopped dead beside his car. He craned his neck, scanning the horizon and Ocelot tilted the binoculars down briefly before he caught himself. He doubted that Miller's eyesight was good enough to see him anyway. Ocelot had no way of knowing exactly where he was looking, but it seemed as though his head were turned a little to the left of his position.

Miller shook his head and finally stepped off the curb and got into his amusingly, quintessentially American pickup that Ocelot had gotten to know fairly well in the past few days, tossing his purchases on the passenger seat. Ocelot let out a breath as Miller turned out from his parking spot, turning right, away from his home. 

Ocelot unfurled from his perch, rolling his shoulders, slipping the binoculars back into their bag. There was no need to follow him any longer. He knew where he was going, he was buying more feed for his dogs, he'd mumbled it to himself that morning when he'd started up the car. And they were almost out, Ocelot had noted it when he'd been acclimating them to his presence, feeding them meat and stroking their thick fur.

He was looking forward to seeing them again.

 

                                                                ***

 

The sevoflurane was placed, tucked inside the intake of the central air system, canisters open to barest amount. Ocelot wanted it to come on slowly, he didn't want him to fall asleep before he could talk to him. At first he planned on leaving him, coming back to collect the canisters and feed the dogs for him one last time, but it seemed classless. After all the years they'd known each other, lIves and worked together.... He owed it to him to see it through with him. It wasn't a coincidence that he'd picked a fairly common gas, one that he wasn't susceptible to, either. Of course he wanted to bear witness to this. Needed to.

Ocelot crept through the house, the playful yipping of the dogs outside an oddly soothing backdrop to what he was doing to their master.

He wonders who'll find him, how long it'll take. Not David, he knew that with certainty. Perhaps his ex-wife? It's a messy business, death, but Adam knows how to arrange it to make it cleaner. Should he make it look as though he collapsed? Or that he just died in his sleep? He'll give Miller the choice between the two, he decides.

It will be one of the kindest ends Ocelot has wrought. Or it would be, if Miller had been a different man. He knows how Miller would really like to go out was fighting and kicking and cussing, but they're both too old for the "honor in death" bullshit. If he'd really wanted to go out in a blaze of flame and glory, he'd still be on the battlefield.

And beside that, Ocelot isn't anxious to see just how powerful that arm of his was.

Ocelot glanced at the door. He'd be back soon.

Ocelot wandered over to the place that had caught his eye as soon as he'd come in, a crowded tabletop full of pictures. Miller had always been collecting reminders that his life had happened, been real and full. He trailed a gloved finger along the frames of them, making a face when the tip of his red leather glove turned gray with dust. He hadn't dusted recently enough. At least it's not a concern now.

He paused, spotting a dustless frame. Miller must've picked this one up often, or at least recently. Ocelot bends over, examining the picture, recognizing the place immediately. Motherbase, 1984. It was taken from behind, and he could see DD sleeping on the lap of a man with nearly entirely gray hair, even back then, inclining his head towards the man seated next to him. Ocelot hadn't even heard Miller take the photo.

His gaze drifted over to the second man in the photo. He was leaning against the unmistakable silhouette of V, the dark horn cutting an angry jagged line through the air.

And now he's gone too, thanks to the smiling boy featuring in many photographs. Hard to imagine that he was capable of it, but then everyone is. He knows this. Adam swallows back a lump in his throat and turns away.

Normally there was a sort of detached pleasure in scoping out targets. The pleasure of a job well done. But in watching Miller move through the life he'd carved out for himself, watching him gnaw on his lip as he thumbed through the cheap cards at the dollar store, trying to figure out which flimsy folded slip of paper would appeal to his young daughter, he couldn't shake the pervasive emptiness deep in his gut, fluttering somewhere in his chest, the hole of it brushing at some tender part of him didn't know had survived his hard, blood drenched life.

Ocelot shook off his thoughts of regret and pity. He shut down the part of himself that he allowed to feel this sort of pain. He had a job to do, a plan to enact. A mission. And he always completed his missions.

Ocelot tilted his head, silver hair falling from his shoulder and exposing his ear. He heard the crunch of gravel beneath tires, the sudden quiet as the engine is shut off.

Adam sighed, looking over at the rows of pictures clustered together. He faded back, lying in wait, pulling in a deep breath, feeling the tickle of a headache as the gas fills his lungs, the barely perceptible scent of it sweet smelling in his nose. 

 _It's done,_ he thinks as he hears the scrape of Miller's key in the door.

_It's time._

**Author's Note:**

> Feusgan, thanks so much for applying for the remix! 
> 
> Your writing style was intriguing, I had trouble deciding which one to do! I hope you like this (and that it has more flow to it when you read it than I had while writing it; I cut out a good chunk of Ocelot just tailing Miller around because it was boring.)
> 
> Oh, and the scar on his stomach, definitely a nod to the gut wound in "By the Throat"\"Battlefield Medicine"


End file.
